


In Loving Memory...

by SatuD2



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Emotional Sex, Eroticoco, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Memories, Memory headcanon, Music, Non-Explicit Sex, Slow Dancing, The dancing is a metaphor for sex, skelesmut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 06:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13676079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatuD2/pseuds/SatuD2
Summary: They dance to remember living.





	In Loving Memory...

It begins with a dance.

When he knocks at her door one warm spring night, she almost doesn’t let him in. She’s not convinced that she’s completely forgiven him, even after all that’s happened. The door swings open and he lingers at the threshold, fidgeting with the hem of his vest.

“Can I come in?” he asks, and the uncertainty in his voice pulls at something deep inside her. She huffs, turns her face away, shrugs. Do whatever you want, that shrug says. I don’t care enough to offer an opinion, that shrug says. He takes it as a yes, and when he enters the room she is struck again but the warmth of his presence.

“What do you want, Héctor?” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. He makes her tremble in a way that doesn’t make any sense for a woman of her age.

“I was hoping for a dance,” he says. Almost asks, but not quite. Awkwardly, he gestures to the open window, where she can just hear delicate melodies floating on the warm breeze, crackling from an old-fashioned radio below. With a start, she recognises the song. One of Héctor’s, from the early days of their betrothal. She casts a curious look at him and the skull marks on his cheeks glow with a flush. “Just one dance, Imelda? Please?”

She thinks for a moment. Considers it. He is looking at her with such hope in his eyes that she cannot say no. Instead she nods, averting her eyes as warmth rushes to her cheeks. When he reaches out one hand, she takes it with no hesitation. His fingers close around hers, sending lazy sparks of electricity up her arm. There’s a weakness in her knees when she stands, and she curses quietly to herself.

It has been a long time since they’ve danced together, and they are uncertain how to approach. He holds her hands and keeps a respectful distance until, frustrated, she squirms free and pulls him close, gripping his shoulders. Red and orange shine from his cheeks as his blush intensifies, but his hands eagerly find the arcs of her pelvis. The touch, even through her dress, makes warmth radiate through her bones. She leans her head on his chest, feeling the shifting of his ribs quicken at the touch, and smiles. Closes her eyes. Loops her arms around his neck and presses close. Breathes in the smell of him and remembers how they danced in life.

The music swells, grows louder than seems possible. Their steps start slow and gentle, then increase with the tempo. As they dance something changes, a subtle shift in the press of their bodies. Her fingertips trace circles on the nape of his neck and his hands tighten on her hips.

Skin beneath her touch. Warm and soft and living. Her eyes fly open and she draws back. Looks up.

“Héctor?” she breathes, uncertain, afraid. Unwilling to lift her hand away from the warmth of his skin, she moves her touch around his neck and to his face—marvelling at the shiver that passes through his shoulders. She traces his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the hooked curve of his nose. He draws a short little breath, hissing between his teeth, and his eyes darken and become unfocused.

He’s so young. Just over twenty-one when he died, his skin smooth and his hair dark. She can feel his heart hammering in his chest, echoing the frantic beat of her own. When his eyes focus on her with heat and passion she hasn’t seen in so long, she can’t help but wonder what he’s seeing. Is he seeing the wife he left behind, barely twenty-two and still young and vital, or the woman who had died at seventy-three with harsh lines carved in her face and aches in her joints.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, leaning down and brushing his nose against hers, and she realises it doesn’t matter. She pushes forward, the music still running through her, feeling her heart flutter as their lips meet for the first time in almost a hundred years.

The world disappears around them, only the touch of their bodies and the music remaining. Heat blooms and spirals through her as a hand skates from her hip, over the curve of her waist and settles on her ribs, rough fingertips catching on her dress. She shivers and hears a low, breathy moan that catches her by surprise.

“Is this okay?” he asks in a voice that is low and husky and longing. She remembers when they’d kissed the first time, when he’d shyly held her hand and asked permission, how sweet and gentle he’d been, how her heart had thrummed when she’d nodded her consent.

She doesn’t answer, just pulls him down and kisses him again. Her tongue runs over his lower lip, tasting the heat of his mouth. A moment of stunned silence where his breath catches and his hands bring her closer to him, before he returns the favour, flicking the tip of his tongue on her upper lip, and deepens the kiss. It’s hungry, that kiss, and when he lifts her and presses her against the wall she clings to him, breathless and lost in the strength of his arms.

Giddy from the rush of movement and the heat of his body, she leans her head back against the wall and moans softly when he takes the opportunity to graze his lips down the line of her throat. He rocks his hips against her and she writhes at the pressure building between them. There are too many layers, too much fabric, and she tears at the laces of her dress with frantic trembling fingers. They are wound too tight, it seems, restricting her chest and stomach. When they finally fall loose, she takes a deep, shuddering breath. Héctor pushes the fabric down and nibbles at the slope of her shoulder as the sleeves capture her arms and pin them to her sides. She struggles to get free, but stills as one hand catches the swell of her breast, fingertips rough from years of playing the guitar rasping across the hardening bud of her nipple.

“Héctor,” she gasps, arching her back, trying to increase the contact, the sensation. She can feel the smile that curls against her collarbone as he matches her movement, maintaining the same delicate, teasing pressure. “Please…”

“Please, what?” he murmurs, warm breath against skin that is already flushed with arousal.

She grinds her hips against him and feels a rush of pleasure as he moans. His hand slides from her breast and tears her dress away, freeing her arms and exposing her to the waist. Her skin prickles with goosebumps as air washes over it, making her shiver and loop her arms around his neck. The hand that had been steadying her now shifts, making her gasp as her weight bears down on the hardness pressing against her.

He fights with the layers of her skirt, pushing them up and out of the way, his hands smoothing up her thighs. The heat pooling in her pelvis is throbbing in time with her heart, and she is astonished to realise that she is wet when his fingers dip between her legs. The electric shock of his touch makes her jolt and sink her nails into his neck, even as her hips surge forwards. Desperate for more.

One hand braces beneath her, angling her pelvis, while the other moves between them and unfastens his trousers. Pushes them down and himself up and forward in one hard movement. It hurts, a little at least, a sharp pain that pulls a gasp from her throat. He catches it with his mouth. Pauses so she can adjust. Her pelvis shifts, the muscles tightening, and he moans into her mouth and twitches against her. There’s a long moment where they are still, pressed as close together as is physically possible to be. She breaks the kiss, pressing her cheek to his and nibbling at his earlobe.

“Please,” she whispers, and a quick hard shudder passes through his muscles. He moves slowly at first, the opposite of that first hard thrust, and the pleasure that begins to build is so powerful that she trembles at the force of it.

“Imelda,” he moans into her ear. He’s throbbing in time with the heart that’s beating so hard she can feel it thudding against his ribs. She places one hand over that thud, marvelling at the humanity of it, of the life there. It has been so long since she’s felt the urges of flesh and blood, and when he thrusts into her again her nails leave red marks on his chest.

She urges him on with needy whimpers, crossing her ankles and digging her heels into his back. Their breath quickens as their movements sync, bodies moving in an intricate dance. Taste and smell and sensation, it all combines in a wave that arches over her and breaks when he catches the angle of her jaw in his teeth, sending her over the crest and into an intense spasm of pleasure that obliterates rational thought. He follows soon after, shuddering against her with a guttural moan.

There is silence. A long silence where they cling to each other, heaving in breath. Imelda leans her cheek on Héctor’s chest and smiles a satisfied smile, feeling his sweat against her skin.

“I love you,” he mumbles and kisses her hair. His hands on her thighs and his heart thudding against her ear. She lazily traces a circle on the nape of his neck, feeling the sweat-damp curl of hair there.

“I love you too,” she says, and the realisation that it’s true and that she always loved him, even in the depth of her anger she’d never stopped loving him, makes her smile fade slightly. “I’m sorry, Héctor.”

He releases her legs, letting them slide down his sides until her feet meet the floor and she tries to take her own weight. Her knees are weak, the long muscles in her thighs trembling, and he keeps a hold of her hips to help her stay steady.

“No need,” he says and kisses her forehead, an oddly chaste gesture after the intensity of his touch before, and she closes her eyes. And as she does the shift recurs, the music shrinking to the tinny, gentle notes from the radio below, the world re-expanding.

When she opens her eyes, they are skeletons again, bones pressed closely together. They blink at each other, shocked and silent. Héctor smiles, gold tooth winking in the gloom, and smooths long hands over the bones of her arms, lifting the torn remnants of her dress to cover her exposed ribcage. She flushes and holds the purple cloth against her, averting her eyes. Then takes his hand and guides him to the bed, to _their_ bed.

There is magic in music. In dancing. It can bring memories to life, it seems. Now they are skeletons, devoid of flesh and blood and lust.

But they remember.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful DeeJayMil for both inspiring and helping me pluck up the courage to post this (as well as giving me a wonderful title _AND_ summary!!) You're wonderful  <3


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